LOVE SPENT
My love’s grown old
The fires run cold
My passion spent
In giving vent
As we drift along
To winter’s end.
For we walk together
And apart
And cannot change the picture.
Where once we would have wrestled with the world
We must now accept it.
It now takes all the time
To fashion a single brushstroke
That may not alter sense
Or produce a single joke.
The meaning has been drained
Into the mundane.
OPHER 5.2.98
I have been told that I am obsessive. That is true. When I am consumed with a passion it is all-encompassing.
Some of my passions burn themselves out.
My art I approached with a fury. I flung paint at canvas as my head burnt with ideas and need.
Then I woke up one day and the cinders merely glowed.
